


Eggshells

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (mostly), Angst, Episode: s14e05 Nightmare Logic, Gen, Internal Monologue, Leader Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 16:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: It kinda makes Dean feel like he's working with Dad again.(Takes place after 14x05Nightmare Logic.)





	Eggshells

"Hey, Dean. How's it going? Haven't seen you in a while."

Dean smiles at Donnie's combination of professionalism and genuine interest in one of the bar's semi-regulars. "Hey. Just... I've been busy, I guess." He gives a happy sigh of appreciation when Donnie automatically places a bottle of Dean's favorite beer in front of him. "Thanks, man."

"Anytime." Donnie winks at him before moving on to the next customer. The place is packed, and Dean realizes it's Friday night, people unwinding after work or school, letting go a little. He’s lost track of time a bit, the days blending together like blood and mud on a hunt gone wrong.

No time for a talk with Donnie tonight, then. Not like Dean could tell him anything but a vague, sanitized version of what’s bugging him, but Donnie's got the universal bartending skill of listening without questions or judgment down to a fine art. And Dean would know; he’s been gratefully using the generous service of these captive shrinks with unlimited alcohol, as one bartender put it, for years—it’s way easier to talk to someone who doesn’t have a personal stake in your drama. Well, maybe next time.

Before a bunch of college kids can trample him, Dean grabs his beer and makes a beeline towards an empty table in the corner, so small that no group of friends or colleagues has occupied it yet. Settled with his back against the wall, he takes a sip, then another, and just sits there and does nothing.

He had to get away from the bunker for a few hours, still on edge with all those people he forces himself not to think of as strangers milling around what he forces himself not to think of as home anymore.

He's got to keep up appearances, before them and before Sam. Just... chill and be cool. Be okay. Be whatever Sam needs him to be, just like he promised.

The funny thing is, it kinda makes him feel like he's working with Dad again.

Only Sam is in Dad's role and Dean's over a decade out of practice navigating the murky waters of telling somebody their idea might not be the best without, you know, actually  _telling_  them.

It's not that Dean has a problem with Sam calling the shots now. Hell, even though Dean's been accused of being bossy way too many times, the truth is that Sam's usually done whatever he wanted anyway, Dean's "orders" (or Dad's before that, for that matter) never holding much weight. And they've always been at their best when bouncing ideas off each other, calling each other's bullshit, coming up with the plan together no matter which idea was whose. Like members of a rock band working together to make the best music they can without egos getting in the way.

Except that's off the menu now. Especially in front of the merry band of trainee hunters, because Sam's authority can't be undermined by any objections or suggestions to maybe change this or alter that. Which Dean finds a bit weird, but it's how Sam got things running while Dean was... gone, and that's all Dean's fault anyway so who is he to complain. He wasn't there when Sam needed him.

But Dean  _is_  here now, and Sam acts like he doesn't—or can't—need him either. Like he has to do everything alone, sleep and rest and food be damned.

He's running himself ragged and it's starting to show, impairing his judgment on things that might affect them all. Making him twitchy, keyed up, emotions quick to boil over, body and mind all but running on fumes. Nerves all over the place, sensitive to anything that resembles criticism like it undermines not only Sam's position as the leader, but his worth as a person too. Clinging to every word of praise and recognition like it's the only thing keeping him going.

And Dean wants to tell Sammy to stop, take a break, let Dean and the others take over some stuff. But he already knows Sam would either completely gloss over it, or look like a puppy that got kicked in the face by some douchebag with steel-toe boots. And Dean doesn't want to be that douchebag, not to Sam.

Which means he's back to subterfuge like the good old days when Dad was still at the helm. Slipping in ideas in a way that makes it look like it wasn't him who came up with them, then complimenting Sam when Sam says what Dean's been sneakily suggesting. (Dean saw an episode of some old sitcom once, where a bunch of housewives was teaching their newlywed friend how to get her husband to do what she wanted. "You have to make him feel like he's a genius who invented the wheel," one of them said, and Dean remembers recognizing the tactic from using it on Dad, and feeling a bit weird about falling into the same category as these pie-baking, carpet-vacuuming Midwestern moms, and then shrugging 'cause hey, if it works, don't break it. Gift horses and teeth and all that.)

So he slips in a thought here and there, and hopes Sam gets the subliminal message.

An offhand comment about Jack feeling useless even though he hasn't lost everything, like his hacking skills imparted on him by Sam last year. Hoping it will get Sam thinking about letting Jack take over the traffic cams and police databases duties.

Overcoming his aversion and going down to the eternally crowded gym, playing nice with the trainee hunters, giving them a tip here and there, showing them a move or two under the pretense of needing a sparring partner. He draws on his experience from teaching Sam how to fight, and from those few quick lessons he gave to Claire in Jody’s garage-turned-gym.

A sulky complaint about how one of the refugees chewed him out when he asked for her name for the third time in two days, which led to the discovery that the woman—Karen—has a past in profiling. Those skills can be put to use working cases  _and_  organizing the people under Sam's command.

An old Men of Letters diary open on the guy's research on how some weird sleep-sucking monster from India eventually caused more deaths than entire nests of vamps. Because Sam's more likely to pay attention to "Get some sleep" if it's coming from a dead Hogwarts graduate than from his overprotective high school dropout of a brother.

All subtle hints, like walking on eggshells—which can get exhausting pretty fast— because if Sam catches on to what Dean's doing, he'll not only stop listening, but he'll feel like a failure.

Dean tips the bottle back and takes a long swallow, followed by two more, the bottle now almost empty. He doesn't know where Sam's sudden need to prove himself as a leader stems from. Having responsibility over so many lives is nothing but a nightmare. There's nothing enviable or desirable about taking the position no sane person would ever want.

But for some reason, Sam wants it, and Dean won't ask why because Sam doesn't seem ready to talk about it; maybe he’s not even aware of it. So Dean will just be there and do everything in his power to make it easier for his brother, to make sure Sam doesn't collapse under all the weight he's putting on his freakishly large but not actually superhuman shoulders.

At least it gives Dean something else to think about other than the crushing guilt of what he's done when Michael was wearing him. Because Dean needs to hold it together.

 _God_ , he needs a whisky, or two, or an entire bottle. But he can't afford to get shitfaced right now. Standing up, he heads back towards the bar to get one more beer. After that, it's closing time for him.

"Hey, look, is that Dean?"

He stops, scans the crowd for familiar faces, hand on the grip of the gun tucked in the back of his pants. And then he spots them—that's Riley, if Dean remembers correctly, and Jules, Karen and... okay, so he still doesn’t know all their names.

But they apparently know about the only decent bar in the bunker's vicinity. Great. Just great.

Dean takes a steadying breath, lets go of his gun, puts his game face on. Time to get back to work.

 

 


End file.
